I's not having the foggiest idea in the world.

(SPOILERS) Big Friendly Giant? Big Fucking
Git? Baggy Flaccid Grind, more like. I can only account for the generally
positive critical reception to The BFG being
down to the Hollywood royalty status reserved for Steven Spielberg these days. Audiences weren’t going to buy a lame
duck, though, which is why it rightly bombed. This is the director’s weakest
picture since Hook, and while it
isn’t an outright disaster the way that sorry spectacle is (Dustin Hoffman
honorably excepted), it suggests, ironically, that the mastermind behind one of
the most successful kids’ movies ever (E.T.
The Extra-Terrestrial, in case you were wondering) comes a cropper when he expressly
attempts to chase that audience. The BFG
is dramatically inert and comedically inept (the latter never the director’s
strong point when he’s trying too hard for it, as he is here) and visually
unappetising. Perhaps it’s time for the ‘berg, just turned 70, to bow out
gracefully? Or accept that he no longer has it when it comes to filling
multiplexes.

The tester will be his next, Ready Player One, which unwisely finds him
diving into the ‘80s nostalgia he was a key figure in fashioning the landscape
for, which smacks of playing with fire. But, in the post-mortem on The BFG, you can readily point to a
giant’s fist of reasons for its failure. Expanding a slender tale to a two-hour
movie is probably top of the list, particularly since there’s minimal drama,
wonder or awe to fill the void.

Then there are the effects, which I suppose
give the reliable Mark Rylance a passing resemblance to Quentin Blake’s
original artwork, but entirely fail to convince that they’re anything other
than motion captured, CG renderings (but then, only a bloody ijit would think
it made sense to try to give Blake’s art a “realistic” rendering). On top of
which, we have the inevitable Janusz Kaminski cinematography; the odd vista
aside, his clinician’s approach feels entirely inappropriate to the warm,
inviting hues one would expect of a family movie. You can feel him longing to
get back to East Berlin. As for John Williams’ score, dragging the poor guy out
of retirement for Star Wars and Spielfests
isn’t doing his legacy any favours; he’s clearly all out of ideas and
inspiration.

Having tepidly navigated the dubious waters
of a larger-than-life, silvery-haired protagonist with a peculiar inflection
who engages in child abduction (and who makes fast friends with royalty) without alluding to ‘70s BBC TV
presenters (but it’s alright, this is set in the ‘80s… oh, wait….), Spielberg
settles into a story that…. doesn’t go anywhere. Slowly. Not helping matters is
that, while Rylance is fine, if uncommanding, Ruby Barnhill is never in danger
of lighting up the screen in the crucial role of young lead Sophie. The
problems are mainly director-based, though, as the ‘berg fails to instil even a
modicum of momentum into a meandering and unengaged story (perhaps, given it
was Melissa Mathison’s final work, he was reluctant to prune it).

There are encounters with other giants
(Jermaine Clement is on good vocal form as Fleshlumpeater, but alas there’s
scant mirth for him to dig into; he ought to have been given a long leash to
improvise) and dream spreading (like everything else here, they are sadly
literal and unmagical). There’s also farting (far too CG and not nearly naughty
enough, if you’ll pardon the far too likely), and you can practically smell the
‘berg’s embarrassment over it. We also encounter Penelope Wilton’s Queen, oddly
not portrayed as a cannibalistic
lizard (or she’d no doubt join forces with the bad giants), who farts less than
regally (a pair of corgis blowing off and express training across the palace
floor did raise a smile, but that was
about the only incident that did) and whom the BFG, the Ed Snowden of his kind,
betrays the other giants to.

Spielberg never gets the tone right, or the
visuals. The BFG is never whimsical
or playful enough, bouncy enough, spirited enough, anarchic enough or dark
enough, funny enough, and all far too
(if you’ll pardon the far too) literal to embrace Dahl’s flight of fantasy and
benign/warped silliness; one quickly comes to the conclusion that live-action
wasn’t the way to go, but I think, more to the point, tired old Steven wasn’t
the guy to make The BFG, unless Disney
(for whom it’s his first picture; someone won’t be asked back) wanted something
to send kids into actual dream land 10 minutes in.

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